Dana Stabenow - Whisper to the Blood

Jim sighed. "I can probably do that." It wouldn't be the first time.

"He's in here every day right after we open," Cindy said promptly.

It was a gray day not expected to get out of the teens, with the winds sweeping down out of the Quilaks at fifteen miles an hour and bringing a fine, white snow with them that immediately frosted anything stationary, including Jim's windshield. The forecast called for three to six inches more. Combined with the layer of black ice beneath it made for hazardous movement, either by foot or by vehicle. Not that that would stop anyone from climbing into their Ford Explorer or their Subaru Forester and barreling up and down the roads, such as they were. Jim resigned himself to a day spent responding to ditch-diving daredevils. He just hoped none of them involved fatalities. The sooner the Park was snowed in and everyone switched to all snow machines all the time, the better.

He also hoped nothing happened anywhere else in the Park that required him to get in the air. The troopers gave first preference to any applicant with a private pilot's license, and Jim was licensed for both fixed wing and helicopters. The state of Alaska had kindly provided him with a Cessna 206, parked on the Niniltna airstrip in a rented space in George Perry's hangar.

The helicopter had been pulled when they opened the Niniltna post, the reasoning behind that decision being he was closer to the action and didn't need two methods of transportation, plus the Cessna could carry more weight. Jim had disapproved of the decision, as the Bell Jet Ranger could get into a lot more places than the Cessna could, but he understood the economics behind the decision and held his peace. Most outposts in the Park had their own airstrips, and those that didn't would simply go longer unserved by the law. That was life off the road in Alaska.

"The first response on the last frontier," so ran the state troopers' latest recruiting slogan, but the state was 586,412 square miles large, and those miles contained some of the most challenging terrain the planet had on offer, with some of the worst weather the atmosphere could manufacture. The Alaska State Troopers, a mere 240 officers strong, hadn't a hope in hell of responding to every outrage perpetrated by or against Alaskan citizens, or even most of them, no matter how many airplanes they spotted their officers.

There was, nevertheless, the expectation that they would try to do so. Jim, like every other Alaska Bush pilot, was well acquainted with the aviation axiom: There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots. If the weather was going to be bad, he wanted it awful, as in below minimums.

For the moment, all that was required was the Blazer. Bingley Mercantile was a solid, square building about twenty-five feet on a side, six hundred and twenty-five feet of retail space crammed with shelves, a wall of refers, and a small row of bins for produce. Their stock-in-trade was Lay's Potato Chips, Cherry Coke, and EPT tests, but they made a praiseworthy attempt to bring in small amounts of oddball-for the Park-items like jasmine rice and tamari almonds, these last, after the freight was factored in, worth about the same amount per ounce as the gold Global Harvest would be taking out of Suulutaq. It was clean, well lit, and when the apples got spotty they threw them out. Park rats really couldn't ask for more than that.

Cindy and Ben Bingley had started the little store eighteen months ago with money from the Niniltna Native Association's nascent small business loan program. They'd spent most of it on the building and the rest on stock and Jim understood and appreciated Cindy's concern over some of that stock walking out the door under Willard's arm. A grocery store had at best a marginal profit line.

He could also appreciate Cindy's reluctance to lodge a formal complaint over Willard's pilferage.

He himself was reluctant to arrest Willard Shugak for murder.

Willard's rusty old International pickup was already in the store's parking lot, the engine running, the cab empty. Jim swore a round oath and got out, killing his own engine and taking the keys. He didn't care if the Blazer froze up while he was in the store in the subzero temperatures. Rather that than a drunk Martin Shugak driving off in it, siren blaring and Christmas tree flashing. It had happened before in the Bush, though not to him, and he was going to make sure it never did.

The top of the door hit the little silver bell and it tinkled softly as he entered, a pleasant sound. What wasn't pleasant was the expression on Cindy Bingley's face when he spotted her standing at the end of one of the aisles.

What was distinctly unpleasant was the gun Cindy was waving around. Crap. Jim craned his head.

Willard was crouched down in front of the candy shelves, a half-empty box of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups clutched to his chest and a lot of empty wrappings scattered on the floor around him. He had chocolate smeared around his mouth, although the flood of tears down his face was making inroads into it. His eyes were squinched shut and snot bubbled out of his nose with every sob.

Cindy, meanwhile, had lost it. "You lousy little weasel, I ought to shoot you right now! Look at this mess! How many of those candy bars have you had? How many did you steal this time?" She hauled back a foot and kicked him, not gently, in the leg.

Willard gave a high, thin, pitiful shriek. Even Cindy seemed momentarily paralyzed by it.

Into that brief silence, Jim said quietly, "Cindy?"

She whipped around, a dumpy, doughty little woman of faded prettiness, pouchy eyes, blond hair graying fast, a triple chin threatening the line of her neck. Her blue eyes were large and slightly protuberant and veined with red. She looked ever so slightly insane, especially when she fixed Jim with a hard look and said, "Yes? Something you wanted? Something you couldn't get here in time to take care of yourself? Goddamn fucking trooper?" There was special emphasis on the last word.

"Cindy," he said, dropping his voice even further, letting it fall to a soothing murmur she had to lean toward him and away from Willard to hear clearly, "you know you're not going to shoot Willard over a candy bar."

"It wasn't just a candy bar!" she shouted.

Behind her Willard whimpered. Jim was grateful when Cindy didn't round on him. "What was it?" he said, still in that calming, sympathetic murmur.

"Look at this!" She stormed toward the checkout counter and rifled around on the top. The gun got in her way and she tossed it to one side. It slid off the edge of the counter and fell behind the cash register. Jim flinched, but it didn't go off, and he relaxed again.

"Here!" she said, waving a piece of paper. "Right here! Look at this!" The paper was shoved beneath his nose. He tried to pull back far enough to bring it into focus but she shoved it up at him again. "I knew he was stealing, and then after I called you I started making a list. Look at it! It's almost a thousand dollars' worth of goods! And I had to beg you to come down here and do something about it?"

She looked as if she was going to spit in his face. For a moment he was afraid she was going to kick him, too. Fortunately, the moment passed. She marched back to Willard, hands on her hips, and glared down at him. "You don't ever come back in this store, Willard, you understand me?"

Willard, still crouched beneath the candy shelf, cowered. "Nuh no," he said. "No, no, no, Cindy, I won't, I promise."

She grabbed hold of his ear and he gave another of those pitiful little shrieks. She ignored it and hauled him to his feet. Since she was a foot shorter than he was he had to bend over to let it happen, and bend over he did. "Get out of my way," she said to Jim.

He got out of the way, using the opportunity to step behind the counter and filch the gun, a 9mm automatic. He checked. Loaded, with a round in the chamber. He wanted to fall on his knees and give thanks.